Chapter Text
…Victor…
…Victor…
“Victor!”
Victor shook off the deep sleep and looked into the eyes of his irate husband.
“Your phone has been buzzing for the last ten minutes.” Did Yuuri know that he was adorable with his bedhead and morning irritability? So adorable, in fact… “AHH! You have morning breath! Kisses after you brush your teeth!”
Victor knew it was beneath him to pout, but Yuuri always did have a way of bringing out his inner child. The one that had been frozen under the ice when someone first noticed his skating talent. The one that Yuuri’s warm love had thawed out and returned to life.
Victor’s phone was also buzzing again. Yakov’s name flashed across the screen.
“He knows that I told him not to disturb me. We’re on a honeymoon.” Victor’s fake pout had become very very real.
“We’ve been married for two years. You can’t just call every trip we take away from St. Petersburg ‘a honeymoon’,” Yuuri corrected. He had propped himself up on his elbows, his muscled chest now bathed in the morning twilight. He looked like an exquisite sculpture.
“Every moment with you is a honeymoon…” Victor shot forward, giving his quarry no time to react, planting a wet kiss on Yuuri’s lips.
“This is why you don’t have any friends,” Yuuri deadpanned, shaking his head and wiping the excess moisture from his lips. “Because you kiss them with bad breath.”
“Good thing the only person I want to kiss is you,” Victor teased right back. “And I already put a ring on it, so you’re stuck with me.”
“Yeah, yeah…” Yuuri sighed a long-suffering sigh. “Answer your phone. Find out what Yakov wants. I’ll go start breakfast.”
Victor watched Yuuri plod out of their bedroom—the one in their flat in Hasetsu. He never could resist staring at his husband's beautiful ass, even if he would have preferred that it was bare. Yuuri always wore a pair of pajama bottoms to bed (even given the frequency of nighttime activities that would strip them off). Yuuri always insisted that one never knew when a guest would arrive, and on more than one occasion that insistence had been accurate (Yurio would never forgive Victor for answering the door in his favorite sleep attire, which was nothing).
Once Yuuri disappeared, Victor turned his attention to his phone. Yakov was normally not this insistent with the phone calls (he had learned long ago that Victor would answer or reply when he was good and ready, much to Yakov’s chagrin), which could only mean that it was important.
That didn’t mean that Victor was happy that Yakov had ruined a perfectly good opportunity to sleep in and snuggle his husband.
“Victor!” Yakov picked up the instant Victor pressed [Call].
“Hiiiiii Yakov.” Victor was already bored of this conversation. “To what do I owe this early call?”
“Olympic Qualifying dates were just announced. You are needed back in Russia to start training.” Yakov never was one to dance around a point.
Victor knew this would be coming eventually. Yakov was already on the verge of giving himself a heart attack, planning and worrying and preparing the Russian team for the Beijing Olympics. After Yuuri Katsuki’s explosive comeback season (and Victor’s second as his coach), the entire tune of Russia changed. Victor was now sought after to design programs, and to act as Yakov’s assistant coach, both alongside his return to skating (not as explosive as Yuuri’s skating season, but nothing to be ashamed of, either—Yuuri did owe him at least five World Championships, after all…)
“Ah.” Victor gritted his teeth. He wasn’t ready for this conversation just yet.
Truth was he hadn’t decided what he was going to do. Yes, the Olympic gold was the one gold he was missing from his collection (damn that Achilles injury destroying his PyeongChang hopes…), but he truly was starting to feel his age. The quads landed harder than ever before, and when he was finished for the day, his body cracked and groaned from the strain.
If Yuuri had not been there with him, to help him stretch, to massage those tired muscles, and to scold him for overdoing it, Victor would have ended his career abruptly from a bad landing.
Instead, he could think about the only gold he’d never kissed. The only podium he had yet to climb. The glory for Russia and a true chance to go out with a bang.
“Let me think about it.” Victor hung up the phone, though not before he heard the beginning of what he imagined was going to be an epic Yakov tirade.
For the old Victor, this would not have been a question. The old Victor would be on a plane to St. Petersburg right now to start training. The old Victor would already be listening to different musical compositions and designing his program. The old Victor would be calling his favorite costume designers and coquettishly winking at interviewers.
The old Victor would break his body to kiss the gold, and he would probably win.
Was there enough old Victor left?
Yuuri had received his call about a week prior, from the Japanese team. Victor remembered the way his doe-brown eyes had widened and twinkled, how he had pursed his lips, a silent request for permission, and how Victor had smirked and nodded. Of course he would coach Yuuri through his skate for Team Japan.
That had been a wonderfully memorable night.
In the morning, they had begun talking about the short program.
“I wonder when Yakov will call you…” Yuuri had mused, half to himself, and half to Victor. It was a comment that Yuuri probably hadn’t thought deeply about when he made it, but it was one that burrowed into Victor’s subconscious: when would Yakov call and ask Victor to skate for Team Russia… and what would Victor do once that phone call happened?
The scent of coffee flicked at Victor’s nostrils. Yuuri didn’t make coffee in the morning unless he was planning on actually getting up; usually he just threw on his sleep mask and fell back to sleep (Victor would always admire Yuuri’s ability to sleep in nearly any situation).
He must suspect what that call was about.
Victor grimaced, then rolled out of bed. He threw on a pair of pajama bottoms (matched to Yuuri’s set) and headed for the bathroom. His husband had demanded fresh breath for kisses, and Victor was in need of kisses.
Something was sizzling on the stove by the time Victor made it to the kitchen. The rice cooker was going, and there looked to be miso soup reheating on one of the burners. Yuuri was currently hovering over a red-fleshed cut of salmon, chopsticks carefully manipulating the fish in the pan.
“Full Japanese breakfast?” Victor wrapped his arms around his husband, resting his chin on Yuuri’s shoulders.
“Food for thought,” Yuuri replied, not looking up from the salmon. “Was that the phone call?”
“Yeah.” Victor knew that his hands were getting in Yuuri’s way, but his husband humored him. “Qualifier dates, blah blah blah.”
“Only gold medal you haven’t clinched, blah blah blah,” Yuuri repeated in Victor’s mocking tone, but then he put down his chopsticks and turned around so that he was facing Victor. “I’m not a reporter; I’m not going to leak to the skating world… with me, it’s okay to say you want it.”
Damn.
Of course Yuuri would say that. Because of course Yuuri could tell. Yuuri had been one of the first people who saw through Victor’s facade. He was one of the first people who would not accept the facade, waiting patiently for Victor to take off the mask. Yuuri loved the real Victor, the one who got worried about his hairline and had a panic attack when the flip didn’t land perfectly, the one who really liked snuggling up on the couch with Maccachin and Japanese gameshows (and Yuuri), the one who liked to be seduced as much as he liked to seduce.
The one who was scared that his body might not hold up for the grueling training of an Olympic competition when so many talented skaters were right there on his heels, waiting for him to step down from his pedestal so they could take his spot.
“Can I be a husband for a second?” Yuuri brushed Victor’s bangs from his eye. “I think you should do it. I think you want to; I think you need to. You’ll regret saying anything but yes.” He then stepped closer, close enough that their chests were touching. “And you’re still the most amazing skater I have ever met. I really want to compete against Victor Nikiforov in the Olympics.”
“Even though I get tired at the end of my program?” Victor rustled Yuuri’s still bed-disheveled hair. “Unlike someone else I know?”
“I get tired, too!” Yuuri put his hand on Victor’s chest, and a warm smile appeared on his face. “So you’ll do it?”
“I guess I have to, don’t I?” Victor braced for Yuuri’s pouncing into his arms. He never could resist his husband’s sparkling eyes, especially when it came to skating.
But this was something he wanted—really wanted—too. This medal was not a sixth gold; it was the One that he was missing. It was his chance to show that he was still at the top of the world. It was his chance to prove to himself that he could still do it.
“I can’t wait to kick your butt,” Yuuri teased. “Better not go easy on me just because I’m your husband.”
“And my pupil,” Victor cooed, closing the distance between them with a staccato of kisses. “Better start thinking about ways to excite me, if I’m going to give you the best program ever.”
“I do like to surprise you.” Yuuri’s hand came around the back of Victor’s neck, and he leaned into Victor’s lips, finally giving in to the passionate kiss that Victor had wanted since they woke up. Victor probably groaned, probably. Suddenly, the contact was gone. “Shoot! I am going to burn the salmon!”
Two years in, married, and Yuuri still managed to leave Victor in a constant state of wanting more.
“I guess I better call Yakov back,” Victor sighed. He would much rather burn the salmon and keep kissing Yuuri, but for an Olympic chance, certain sacrifices had to be made.
“Get to it!” Yuuri shooed Victor out of the kitchen. “By the time you’re done, breakfast will be ready.”
“I love you,” Victor declared, pleased to see the soft smile appear on his husband’s face just before he headed back to the bedroom, back to his phone.
“Victor!” Yakov was nothing if not consistent.
“I made my decision,” Victor drawled, amused at how the other side of the line went dead-silent. “Send me the qualifying schedule. I’m going to skate.”
“I didn’t think you would give up the chance at winning the one gold that eludes you,” Yakov replied; he sounded much more relaxed now. “But don’t think that you can just waltz into trials and win!”
“I know,” Victor nodded; the Russian bench was deep, but not concerning. Yurio was certain to qualify, especially if his skating kept improving (Victor regularly got excited thinking about what to include in Yurio’s program, just to see what the teen phenom could do). Georgi didn’t worry Victor. As long as he landed his quads and skated cleanly, he’d have no trouble.
“And you need to come back to Russia.” Yakov sounded unsure as he spoke; he was hiding something. It made the hair on the back of Victor’s neck stand on end.
“Yuuri and I live in Russia. Coming back is not an issue,” Victor probed. He had a bad feeling about this.
“Yuuri will be busy training with Team Japan, Vitya.” Yakov changing to Victor’s paternal nickname nearly put him into fight or flight. “He cannot return to Russia with you.”
There it was.
“You’re telling me that… in order to have a chance to compete for the gold medal, I need to separate from my husband?” Victor’s voice chirped as he asked, but his stomach had turned to ice.
“It is already an oddity that one competitor coaches another.” Yakov sounded like he had prepared this speech beforehand. “And the International Skating Union lets it slide because—”
“Because I’m Victor Nikiforov.” Victor chirped again; his knuckles were white. He had had this conversation before. He had threatened to leave skating along with Yuuri, if they tried to object. As if one or the other would throw an event?
“But the Olympics are different,” Yakov pleaded. “A Russian contender should not be coaching a Japanese contender. I am sure that the Japanese team feels the same way.”
“You’re telling me to abandon my husband.” Victor didn’t mince words. He needed to calm down; he needed Yuuri right now. “How much time do I actually have to decide?”
Yakov sighed a long-suffering sigh.
“Two weeks.”
“Then I will call you with my decision in two weeks.” Victor hung up the phone, dropping it onto the bedroom floor. It did not start buzzing again.
Yuuri was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping on his mug of coffee. The rice and fish and miso soup were arranged in two neat settings, untouched, waiting for Victor to return.
“How did it go?” Yuuri set down his mug and picked up his chopsticks, diving immediately into the rice. Then, he paused, studying Victor’s face carefully; Yuuri could always tell. “Are you okay?”
“I… don’t know if I can do it.” Victor trembled, looking at the food Yuuri had cooked him (the man had made a nori smiley face on his rice). “It would mean—”
“Going back to Russia without me?” Yuuri asked.
“And not getting to be your coach,” Victor added, removing the nori crescent that used to be a smile, and resetting it on his rice as a frown. “Something about national pride.”
“Ah.” Yuuri picked up his mug again and took a sip of coffee. A habit he had when he wanted a moment to collect his thoughts. “I wondered if that would happen.”
“Wait, you wondered?” Victor saw the guilty look in Yuuri’s eye. “Did Team Japan tell you I couldn’t be your coach?”
“No! Nothing like that!” Yuuri’s eyes widened. “More like… if you are competing for Russia—which you should—it would be harder to be by my side as my coach, since I am competing for Team Japan.”
“You’re so calm about this.” Victor didn’t mean to sound accusatory; he didn’t.
“I wouldn’t say calm,” Yuuri frowned. “More… serene.”
“Serene and calm mean the same thing.” Victor had moved from accusatory to hostile.
“They don’t,” Yuuri corrected. As much as Victor wanted to pick a fight, he resisted the urge. Because Yuuri looked sad, thoughtful. So Victor stayed quiet, to give Yuuri a chance to speak what was on his mind. “Of course I hate the idea of competing without my coach!” Yuuri actually reached his hand across the table, grabbing Victor’s. “But you’re still my husband. Still the most important person in my life. And I want you to be happy.” He began to caress the back of Victor’s hand. “You will regret saying no for the rest of your life.” Yuuri smiled. “I would happily take a few months of being apart to avoid a lifetime of grumpy Victor. Plus… competing against you on the Olympic stage would be one of the greatest moments of my life.”
Victor realized that Yuuri had been contemplating this very thing for the last week. As he was practicing jumps at Ice Castle, he thought about the qualifiers for Team Japan. As he chased a clean quadruple Lutz, he was fretting about the moment that training for their respective teams would take precedence, wondering when he would have to say goodbye to Victor, when he would have to find someone to step in and coach him. He had thought about this, run through his options, and decided for himself what he wanted. Yuuri was willing to sacrifice this much to skate against Victor one last time on the biggest stage there was.
“Okay.” Victor slumped his shoulders, and stared down at the breakfast his husband had so lovingly prepared for them both. “But…” He looked back up at Yuuri’s doe eyes. “We have two weeks before I need to give Yakov my answer. So, I’m not letting some second-rate coach guide Yuuri Katsuki in planning his program.” Victor grabbed onto Yuuri’s hand. “I hope you’re ready for the most intense two weeks of your skating life, Yuuri Katsuki.”
“I’m ready.”